


Your Warzone

by shirleyholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels, art prompt, border-line insane sherlock, i wikipedia my science, sherlock talks to john even when he isn't there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 21:50:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirleyholmes/pseuds/shirleyholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are the angel to my demon, the conductor to my light, the softness to my brutal edges, all of these and more and there’s no rationality, no thread of sanity I can find, that unravels all these things that bind me to you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Warzone

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a tumblr story for the amazing Anne (decompositiondance.tumblr.com) and her tease of an art-prompt: (http://intryck.deviantart.com/#/d5i66i3)
> 
> She then saw the story and decided to make a gorgeous fan song:  
> (http://sherli-holmes.tumblr.com/post/39579338182/decompositiondance-text-by-sherli-holmes-text)
> 
> Yes, that's a bit of a complicated art trade!
> 
> Someone teach me how to add links please??
> 
> Edit: And now there's a podfic!! baldandbold.tumblr.com/post/42677751001

You are the angel to my demon, the conductor to my light, the softness to my brutal edges, all of these and more and there’s no rationality, no thread of sanity I can find that unravels all these things that bind me to you. This hateful feeling, part fantasy, part foolishness, one part sentiment and the other part something deeper that I cannot name, but it twists in my heart and feels oddly like desperation.

I don’t like it, John. 

I despise pain that I do not understand. 

Fix it for me, John. 

Ah you cannot, of course not. You’re not here are you? I thought you were. Again.

I was talking to you though, just moments before. Where did you go?

Look at my hands now, at the blood that refuses to wash away from under my nails. Evidence of the men I’ve killed, the webs I’ve untangled. One part white cells, one part red. One part plasma, one part platelets. That at least, is simple. 

When blood of two very different types mixes, it forms clumps, red blood cells that bond too tightly together, agglutination, it can kill you, too much of that bonding. But it’s the same process that knits your wounds together, leaves scars but staunches your blood- Silly of me, you would know that already, wouldn’t you, Doctor Watson? 

It seemed relevant somehow, agglutination, a brilliant, strange process, yes, but I don’t know why. It happens more and more, deviations from the stream of conscious, random tangents. My thoughts are no longer as concise without you, they lose coherency as time passes and I fear, sometimes, that it was you that kept me from tipping into the chaos at the brink of my mind.

No matter. This is for you, John. My life, I would gladly give, but my sanity… my genius… After all this is over, will I even recognize your face? When I walk through the door, what all will I have left behind?

It frightens me, terrifies me, that I might continue talking to this wall, long after Moriarty’s organization has disintegrated, long after it is safe to return home That I might forget, day by day, the pieces of myself and give into the temptation, for madness is a type of bliss and, at the end of the day, Moriarty and I are the same, two geniuses caught in a dull, dull world, teetering always on the edge, most of all within ourselves. 

Worry is useless, distracting, but I do it anyways. And if the day comes that I do not recognize you John Watson, that I do not remember the years of our friendship, I want you to know the following:

1\. I saw you crying at my grave. And I walked away. 

2\. I knew you’d be in danger, if you figured out I wasn’t dead. But for a long time, I hoped you would anyways. 

3\. I still remember the feeling of your hand in mine and it is what keeps me tied to the Earth some days, the pressure of your fingers against my palm, the anchor that keeps me from giving up completely.

It’s fading, John. The pressure weakens day by day and I’m frightened that I won’t make it back in time, as if there’s a limit to how long I can endure and the clock’s ticking-Morbid. Ridiculous, fantastical, irrational, and I could be wrong, but I can’t ever be sure. 

But I can promise you this, John… I will fight this war for you. I will fight, against myself as much as against our enemies, hold onto the shards of my humanity, my sanity, not because you fought for me, time and time again, but because I am selfish and I refuse to let go of the bits of you I still have left.

I will be your warzone. 

And one day, I’ll make it back to your doorstep. 

And I want you to remind me. Of who Sherlock Holmes was and who he could be and remind me too, of yourself and our adventures together, all that we shared. Remind me again and again, even if I never remember and you’ll fight for me, I know you will, even if you’ve moved on. 

Don’t look so worried- of course I’ll come back. Once this is all over, whatever shattered wreckage I am, I will always find my way back to you. Even if, by then, you find you do not want me.

After all, John.

I do believe I owe you one, last, miracle.


End file.
